Not now. Just a few more moments of pretending all was fine. Once alone, she could let herself cry. Sharp pains all over her body hinted at how many times she’d tumbled around inside the carriage as it careened off the road toward the trees. As if her aches weren’t enough, Lord Amesbury’s appearance had created another layer of emotional chaos. At least she’d finally said her piece. That was a small comfort.
Tears threatened. The need to rant hammered at her composure. To rehash what she could have said when faced with the man who’d treated her so callously during her first Season. But more than anything, she wanted privacy so she could fall apart.
Blowing a lank curl out of her face, Lottie fought for a thin thread of control, squeezing her good eye closed as she counted her breaths. Inhale, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. The pressure in her chest released, and her mask of composure slid back into place. She must not forget why she was London bound. The scandal of her debut wouldn’t be repeated. This time, she’d play society’s game by her rules.
Chapter Three
The doctor’s sewing skills rivaled those of a seamstress. Although he wasn’t quite finished, a glance in a hand mirror showed small stitches that would eventually heal and disappear into her hairline.
“You have commendable skill with a needle, Doctor. Does your wife ask you to handle the mending? You would turn out a beautiful seam in no time.” Lightening the mood didn’t distract her from the pain, as she’d hoped. His flat expression displayed no emotion, which didn’t help either. What the physician lacked in personality, he made up for with ability. Better that than a charming quack armed with bottles of mystery tonic and foul river sludge.
Each prick of the needle burned instead of stabbed, as if her body’s sensitivities were so overloaded, her brain could no longer accurately categorize individual injuries. She held her tongue against more comments and tried to stay still.
Wishing to be anywhere else, Lottie closed her eyes. In her mind she saw herself at home, at her desk in the sitting room, sunlight streaming through the multipaned windows as she made lists for the week’s work. Organizing and prioritizing the needs of the tenants or scheduling the planting and harvest in each field soothed her. An especially painful stitch sent daggers of sensation through her skull, pulling her from the mental retreat.
The inn’s maid arrived at the door as the doctor finished packing his case. Lottie invited the girl in as the physician left to await the arrival of Darling and Patrick from the carriage rubble. A moment later, hot water from the servant’s buckets splashed into the tub, letting off swirls of steam into the tiny room.
The young woman asked, “Will there be anything else before your bath, milady?”
Just the thought of a bath was enough to make her smile. “I don’t think so. I’m very much looking forward to being clean.” Sitting on the side of the bed, she was tempted to lean back and fall into the softness of the pillows, but she refused to give in to the urge when layers of grime covered every inch of her. Hot water first, then a lie-down. Checking the maid’s progress, Lottie said, “Now that I think of it, would you be so kind as to move that small table beside the tub? If the pitcher and soap are between the tub and fire, the clean water jug will stay warm. It’s just a small thing. Thank you.”
Exhaustion swept over her. From what she’d been able to piece together at the scene, she thought one of the horses had spooked, snapping a leather line and jarring the carriage. They’d hit a rut in the road at high speed, already teetering from the horse wanting to shy in a different direction. Bad luck. Awful timing. Then shuddering carriage walls cracking and splintering apart. A dirty floor that became a roof, then a floor, then a roof again. Panicked cries from the horses and Patrick’s answering call, cut short by an agonized scream. His leg. Lord, his leg. Darling’s ashen face, her eyes appearing too large for her skull when she saw the coachman. The disorientation when Lottie lost and regained consciousness at some point.
With closed eyes, Lottie counted footsteps as a parade of sloshing buckets filled the large basin by the fire. One hundred thirty steps. Ten buckets of water thus far. This had been the longest day, and it wasn’t even noon. At last, the maid emptied a final bucket, and Lottie stood to savor a moment of silence.
Relative silence. The Boar and Hound bustled with activity. Sounds of commerce and travelers filtered up through the floor. The four walls were her haven from the world as the fireplace blazed cheerily by the washtub, chasing away the shadows in the room.
The earlier waterworks that had threatened to overwhelm her in the stables loomed. Years of experience had taught her the dangers of stifling feelings for too long. A blinding headache with nausea and sensitivity to light and sound would be too much to bear after this morning.
There might be no preventing the pain. But when it hit, she could be clean. If that was all she could do to control the situation, then so be it. A desperate need to get out of the filthy traveling gown overruled the tangled feelings from the day. Although her fingers were clumsy and swollen from repeated impact in the carriage, she managed the tapes and hooks without help. Thank goodness for simple country clothes.
At last, fire-licked warmth from the hearth caressed bare skin. The idea of touching such a grimy dress, even to hang it on the hook by the door, made her wrinkle her nose, so she left it in a pile on the
